There it stood, maybe 100 feet tall or more. Its metal cage arched gracefully towards the sky and I had to shield my eyes and squint just to get a look at the top. The year was 1973 and, like many other 5 year olds, my goal for the summer was to make it to the top of the Rocket. It was the centerpiece of the playground at the Community Pool that I went to on Long Island. Looking back, there was not a single safety requirement that this monster would satisfy today, but at the time safety was the farthest thing from my mind. For those lucky enough to make it to the top, the rewards were bragging rights and a view that was beyond compare. From the top, you were higher than the lifeguard stands, the highest diving board and even many of the tall pines that surrounded the picnic area.
My palms were sweaty, so I wiped them off on the sides of my blue bathing suit with the white whales all over it. I kept my hands by my sides as I marched through the sand that lead up to the rocket’s entrance. The larger sand particles and stones filled my sandals, but I disregarded the pain and remained focused on my mission. The sun beat down mercilessly as I approached the ladder that lead into the Rocket. There was no plastic coating or rubber mats anywhere to be found, only steel and the strength of my own conviction. I grabbed the ladder, but the searing heat of the metal sent me flying backwards. It was as if the Rocket was saying, “Did you think I was going to make it that easy?”
After a trip to the water fountain to cool down my second degree burns, I made another attempt. First, I licked my hands. Then I scampered up the ladder and through the porthole that lead to the first level. For the first time in my life, I was on the inside of the bars looking out. The smaller children on the playground were looking at me with admiration in their eyes, and for the first time I felt like I fit into the social order. I was assuming my rightful place in society and nobody was going to get in my way. I had three more levels to go until I reached the top. I grabbed the next ladder, but the combination of fear and burning flesh made a tight grip impossible.
The Rocket levels were small, only accommodating three or four children comfortably around a central pole. The levels were accessed through small portholes that could only fit one child at a time. A few times, I successfully shimmied up the ladder, only to be knocked back down by a larger kid coming down from the top. Stories existed of kids who were near the top and got knocked all the way back to the sand. The Rocket was an unforgiving beast. As I reached the level below the top, I felt the natural sway of the Rocket, which was exaggerated by older kids grabbing the bars and shaking back and forth. I looked up the final porthole and saw the sun beaming through it. I caught a glimpse of steering wheel.
I was literally on top of the world. I grabbed the metal steering wheel and the steel levers next to it that did absolutely nothing except produce a sick, squeaking sound. I looked out over the world which now appeared very different to me. For that moment on, the world would be all mine. Life seemed limitless and I felt invincible. Even to this day, I always keep a small part of that feeling with me, and I call upon it whenever it is needed. Sometimes it’s during surgery or when I have to get up and speak to an audience, or sometimes it’s when I’m all alone and unsure of what to do next. It’s been many years since the Rocket was taken down, but I will never forget the lesson that it taught me that day. The strength is inside all of us, and if we only face our fears, anyone can touch the sky.
________________________________________
Come see Dr. Reisacher perform his standup routine. He will be at The Comic Strip, 2nd Avenue, between 81st and 82nd street on Thursday, April 30th from 5:30-7:30. Tickets are $30, 2 drink minimum. Proceeds will benefit the enrichment programs of P.S. 158. Hope to see you there!
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
Bull's Eye!
I squirmed nervously on my seat while my eyes remained frozen on the floor. The metal of the chair squeaked with every twitch of my muscles. Across the table, Detective Harris pounded his cigarette into the ashtray and, with a sigh, blew a cloud of smoke in my direction. He had a square chin, which he was rubbing thoughtfully, and his rough voice cut the silence like a chainsaw. “This is the point where I’m supposed to put you in handcuffs and formally charge you.” I looked up at him, but did not make eye contact. He answered my unspoken question. “Second degree assault and battery.”
After a few moments, he continued. “What year are you, son?”
“I’m a Freshman.” My voice cracked so badly I wasn’t sure he understood me.
“What are your plans after you graduate from college?”
“I want to go to Medical School.”
“Well, do you realize that something like this on your record could seriously jeopardize your chances of doing that?”
I remained silent. His rhetorical question rang inside my head and I tasted the acid in the back of my throat. How could things have come to this? My mind drifted back to the same time last night when I was safe in my dorm room, studying for my Economics midterm ...
______________________________
Pete burst into my room as I was sitting at my desk. “Hey, Bill, what are you doing?”
“I’m trying to figure out what the hell a negatively sloping demand curve is”, I replied.
“Oh, that’s a bummer.” He took a sip from his Diet Coke. “Come down to the lounge when you get a chance. I’ve got something to show you.”
I tried to concentrate, but it was no use. The graphs on the page began to swirl and the heat from my desk lamp was causing beads of perspiration to emerge on my forehead. My skin began to crawl and I realized the iced tea I had been drinking over the past hour finally filled my bladder. It felt good to get up and walk around. On my way to the bathroom at the end of the hall, I passed by the lounge. Pete and Mike were sitting on the couch, examining something that I had never seen before.
“What’s that?” I inquired.
Proudly, Pete held it up and exclaimed, “It’s a Funnellator!”
He proceeded to demonstrate the device to me and Mike. Basically, it was a huge slingshot made out of canvas and surgical rubber tubing. Two men, called stanchions, would each hold one end of the tubing, while the wingadoro would pull the canvas pouch and its contents backwards before letting it rip.
“Let’s give it a try!”, Mike said as he jumped to his feet. “I’ve got some balloons.” We all got caught up in the excitement and began filling up our arsenal in the bathroom. I finally had a chance to pee.
Our target was the dorm across the way. We ran down to the other end of the hall and took our positions. Mike and I were the stanchions, while Pete was the wingadoro. The first few attempts were clumsy, but soon we could nail the side of the building with surgical precision. The water balloon struck the bricks and burst into a shower for the unsuspecting students on the path below, who believed that it came from our rival dorm. We were having a wonderful time, laughing and reloading, when all of a sudden the unthinkable occurred.
Pete pulled back on a balloon that was under-filled. It took an unexpectedly low trajectory and struck the window of the dorm directly across from us and broke the window. The sound of glass shattering echoed in the courtyard below as we looked on in horror. Through the broken glass we saw a male student holding his arm. He had been standing next to the window and a piece of glass had cut his arm and there was blood running down towards his hand. Instinctively, we raced from the window and stashed the Funnellator under Pete’s bed. I sat back down at my desk, but was overwhelmed with feelings of remorse and fear.
This is the point in the story where things turn from bad to worse. Apparently, the floor where we launched our assault was inhabited by several members of the football team who conducted a quick investigation and concluded that the missile came from our floor. An angry mob assembled across the courtyard, armed with bats and letterman jackets instead of torches and pitchforks, and promptly marched towards our dorm. One of our dorm windows was broken as they stormed up to our floor. It was a standoff. They were thirsty for revenge and we all hid behind a thin veil of innocence.
The conflict was about to escalate when the Campus Police arrived, alerted by the reports of glass breaking. With clubs out and hands on their revolvers, they separated the two groups and took a full report from each. They assembled all the students on our floor into the lounge and issued an ultimatum. “Whoever is responsible for this, you know who you are. And we’re not going to give up until we find out. Someone was injured, so the town police had to be notified. If you don’t turn yourselves in to them by 5 PM tomorrow, the entire dorm is going to suffer because of you.” Pete, Mike and I exchanged glances. We knew what we had to do.
______________________________
“Is he OK?”
Detective Harris pulled another cigarette out of the wrinkled pack in his shirt pocket, lit it and took a long, slow drag that he did not expel until he responded to me. “He’ll be fine, but it took a few stitches. You should be grateful – he agreed not to press charges.”
I was. “So can I go?”
“Not yet, kid. It’s out of our hands now, but you’ll have to face J-R.”
“J-R?”
“Judicial Review. It’s judge and jury all in one. They’ll decide your punishment. Go on, get out of here.”
______________________________
The three of us went separately to Judicial Review. In retrospect, we didn’t suffer nearly enough for our carelessness. I was sentenced to work as a cook for a semester, flipping burgers and preparing food for a variety of campus functions. This skill served me well when I moved off campus the following year and cooking remains a passion for me to this day. I earned a B in Economics and never took another class in that department again. As for the three of us, we did not exactly retire the Funnellator. The following year, we entered the slingshot event at a fraternity competition, requiring us to launch water balloons into the football stadium portholes from the 50 yard line. Needless to say, we took first place. Proving that violence only leads to more violence, our prize was a dartboard.
After a few moments, he continued. “What year are you, son?”
“I’m a Freshman.” My voice cracked so badly I wasn’t sure he understood me.
“What are your plans after you graduate from college?”
“I want to go to Medical School.”
“Well, do you realize that something like this on your record could seriously jeopardize your chances of doing that?”
I remained silent. His rhetorical question rang inside my head and I tasted the acid in the back of my throat. How could things have come to this? My mind drifted back to the same time last night when I was safe in my dorm room, studying for my Economics midterm ...
______________________________
Pete burst into my room as I was sitting at my desk. “Hey, Bill, what are you doing?”
“I’m trying to figure out what the hell a negatively sloping demand curve is”, I replied.
“Oh, that’s a bummer.” He took a sip from his Diet Coke. “Come down to the lounge when you get a chance. I’ve got something to show you.”
I tried to concentrate, but it was no use. The graphs on the page began to swirl and the heat from my desk lamp was causing beads of perspiration to emerge on my forehead. My skin began to crawl and I realized the iced tea I had been drinking over the past hour finally filled my bladder. It felt good to get up and walk around. On my way to the bathroom at the end of the hall, I passed by the lounge. Pete and Mike were sitting on the couch, examining something that I had never seen before.
“What’s that?” I inquired.
Proudly, Pete held it up and exclaimed, “It’s a Funnellator!”
He proceeded to demonstrate the device to me and Mike. Basically, it was a huge slingshot made out of canvas and surgical rubber tubing. Two men, called stanchions, would each hold one end of the tubing, while the wingadoro would pull the canvas pouch and its contents backwards before letting it rip.
“Let’s give it a try!”, Mike said as he jumped to his feet. “I’ve got some balloons.” We all got caught up in the excitement and began filling up our arsenal in the bathroom. I finally had a chance to pee.
Our target was the dorm across the way. We ran down to the other end of the hall and took our positions. Mike and I were the stanchions, while Pete was the wingadoro. The first few attempts were clumsy, but soon we could nail the side of the building with surgical precision. The water balloon struck the bricks and burst into a shower for the unsuspecting students on the path below, who believed that it came from our rival dorm. We were having a wonderful time, laughing and reloading, when all of a sudden the unthinkable occurred.
Pete pulled back on a balloon that was under-filled. It took an unexpectedly low trajectory and struck the window of the dorm directly across from us and broke the window. The sound of glass shattering echoed in the courtyard below as we looked on in horror. Through the broken glass we saw a male student holding his arm. He had been standing next to the window and a piece of glass had cut his arm and there was blood running down towards his hand. Instinctively, we raced from the window and stashed the Funnellator under Pete’s bed. I sat back down at my desk, but was overwhelmed with feelings of remorse and fear.
This is the point in the story where things turn from bad to worse. Apparently, the floor where we launched our assault was inhabited by several members of the football team who conducted a quick investigation and concluded that the missile came from our floor. An angry mob assembled across the courtyard, armed with bats and letterman jackets instead of torches and pitchforks, and promptly marched towards our dorm. One of our dorm windows was broken as they stormed up to our floor. It was a standoff. They were thirsty for revenge and we all hid behind a thin veil of innocence.
The conflict was about to escalate when the Campus Police arrived, alerted by the reports of glass breaking. With clubs out and hands on their revolvers, they separated the two groups and took a full report from each. They assembled all the students on our floor into the lounge and issued an ultimatum. “Whoever is responsible for this, you know who you are. And we’re not going to give up until we find out. Someone was injured, so the town police had to be notified. If you don’t turn yourselves in to them by 5 PM tomorrow, the entire dorm is going to suffer because of you.” Pete, Mike and I exchanged glances. We knew what we had to do.
______________________________
“Is he OK?”
Detective Harris pulled another cigarette out of the wrinkled pack in his shirt pocket, lit it and took a long, slow drag that he did not expel until he responded to me. “He’ll be fine, but it took a few stitches. You should be grateful – he agreed not to press charges.”
I was. “So can I go?”
“Not yet, kid. It’s out of our hands now, but you’ll have to face J-R.”
“J-R?”
“Judicial Review. It’s judge and jury all in one. They’ll decide your punishment. Go on, get out of here.”
______________________________
The three of us went separately to Judicial Review. In retrospect, we didn’t suffer nearly enough for our carelessness. I was sentenced to work as a cook for a semester, flipping burgers and preparing food for a variety of campus functions. This skill served me well when I moved off campus the following year and cooking remains a passion for me to this day. I earned a B in Economics and never took another class in that department again. As for the three of us, we did not exactly retire the Funnellator. The following year, we entered the slingshot event at a fraternity competition, requiring us to launch water balloons into the football stadium portholes from the 50 yard line. Needless to say, we took first place. Proving that violence only leads to more violence, our prize was a dartboard.
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